Did Lolly lick himself?

Just in case Steve Hofmyer reads this, let me preface so that we are clear: it is never good when anyone dies. Especially when it is an unnatural death, as this implies a violent violation of their rights, obviously.

Now, when someone dies, and you ponder aloud the idiom “live by the sword, die by the sword”, it does not mean that you are automatically calling for the death of that person’s entire culture. That would imply unbalanced and socially dangerous thinking, in Latin, I believe they refer to that as being “stjoepit“.

Even people we don’t agree with should not die unnaturally. If for no other reason than their murder means that they were robbed of fundamental rights, and that we are unable to educate or look forward to the enlightenment of said person. True liberals will not rest until all enjoy the same fundamental rights, even those we don’t agree with or like, or want to be near. Got it, Stevie? Good.

I once interviewed the mythical Mr Jackson in his kingdom of kitsch. His benign rogue goofing was opaque under his own low lighting. There were shadows deep dancing under the haughty veneer that day. It’s easy to forget that you’re in a lair when the dragon has mouthwash on gold-tap. Many people were dazzled, probably not prepared to admit to the fear that gave the man his blinding shine. We were an audience in his neon bordello. The king is dead.

Not that I’m jumping on the tired, knee-jerk, self-righteous wagon of self-congratulation savoured by so many truly evil people — bankers, doctors, lawyers, preachers and other bottom-feeding scum of the “don’t-get-caught” brigade. He was a symptom of our collective condition, not a cause.

I have never underestimated the magnificence of things carnal — it’s the only medicine I’d prescribe for Calvinitis. Naked, greased flesh liberally applied twice a day until symptoms ease. Some late nights of a black past, flocks of strange nipples and hymns in the string of G have been my salvation. Titillation is not the devil.

His was an empire of dirt, and I’m not referring to the bare naked ladies, far from it. It’s what’s under the skin that will drag you to hell … just ask a racist, he will tell you.

If a woman wants to earn her money by shoving her business in my nose, I won’t turn it up at her. That’s her business — provided it is her business. And there’s the rub — it’s not entirely clear whether or not the women who go Godiva in these noon-day caves of beer and labia majora are in charge of their business.

Human trafficking is a rabid animal loose in our suburbs, and falls into a beeskraal far more brutal than the one that hems in voluntary professional nudists. I want you to show me your wares on your terms, not those of some pantomime villain whose only laundry involves money.

I like my plucked chicks free range, like Woolies eggs. If you buy and sell human beings without losing any sleep, then life can make Swiss cheese out of you in a strange house. And also, is it Lolly’s fault only?

Did he invent the oldest business in the world, the alchemy of elemental vagina into money? He didn’t, he just made them the size of billboards, and gave them a frame. He created hot vents where they funneled out before your eyes, boiling your blood with booze and boobs and whisking them away in a furious illusion of things to come. You have to admire the showman, but I cannot swallow the idea that these women might have been trapped and traded — that kind of thing is to die for.

So, although we all abhor violence, in any form, if we were to make a list of those most likely to go the way Lolly did … how far up that list would his name be written? You tell me.